


till this night

by erebones



Series: The Twelve Days of Fever [12]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Blight Cure, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Satinalia, Warden Carver Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-15 01:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9213245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: Carver is confined to the infirmary after barely escaping the Fade with his life, and he finds himself falling quite hard for his caretaker.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight!
> 
> For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.

Everything hurts. Even his _teeth_ , which he really doesn’t think should be possible. He lets out a pathetic little moan, and nearly jumps out of his skin when something touches the skin of his forehead lightly.

“He’s awake,” says a voice he doesn’t recognize. A man’s voice, soft and thickly accented. Tevinter? “Go fetch the surgeon.”

 _The surgeon?_ He struggles a bit, but even the smallest movement sends waves of pain radiating down his limbs. “Ow,” he says, weakly. Then, “Why can’t I see?”

“A blindfold. Temporary. Just until your eyes heal.” The same touch comes again, and he recognizes it for what it is: a hand, very softly feeling his temperature just above the bandages wrapped around his temples. “How are you feeling, Ser Hawke?”

“Oh, gods, don’t call me that. It’s Carver. And I feel like shite, thanks for asking.” His jaw aches with the effort of saying so much at once, but there’s at least one more question that needs to be asked. “What happened?”

“You nearly died,” is the gentle response. “You were in the Fade, with your brother and the Inquisitor. Do you remember?”

Of course bloody Garrett was there. He never went anywhere without Carver anymore, even to the Fade. If he strains, he can recall his face, lit oddly with a flickering green light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. _The Fade? Truly?_

“You’re going to be all right,” the man says when he doesn’t respond. “But the healing took a lot out of you. It’s going to take a while for your body to recover.”

Carver contemplates this. “Who are you? A healer?”

“Me? Oh, no,” he laughs. “I’m just a volunteer. Felix Alexius, at your service.”

 _He’s Tevinter, all right._ Not that Carver minds. He has nothing against the man, unless he’s a blood mage, but he can’t imagine a magister or maleficar lowering himself to _volunteering_ in a sickbay. “I’m… Carver,” he grunts, dismayed at how difficult it is to get the words out.

“Yes, I know.” There are footsteps coming toward them, as if from across an empty room. “And here is the surgeon. You’ll be all right, don’t worry.”

Carver feels that gentle hand again, squeezing his own very briefly before retreating. He wants to beg him back to sit at his side and comfort him, but he had too much pride and not enough breath to form the words. In any case, the pain is receding now, and with it, his latent panic--cool healing magic floods his aching body and he drifts off into a half-doze, helped along by the bandages still firmly in place over his eyes.

When he comes to, the pain has subsided to a dull hum, drowned by the sound of pages turning slowly. Carver rolls his head on the pillow in the direction of the sound. “Felix?”

A brief, surprised exhale. “Yes. How did you know?”

“Lucky guess.” A cocky smile spreads across his face on reflex, and he’s rewarded with a huff of laughter.

“Lucky indeed. I’m afraid you slept through your brother’s visit, but he said to tell you to behave yourself and not distress the healers. And he bade you rest and heal so that you’ll be ready to spar again upon his return.”

“His return?” Carver felt a cold pang of dread in his gut. “From where? Where did he go?”

There’s a very long pause. “Weisshaupt.”

“ _What_? Gare, you idiot! You promised we would go together!” He’s filled with helpless rage for a moment, and then he feels hands on his shoulders--or his chest, really--holding him down and soothing him. He can feel the mattress dipping where Felix is resting his weight, and he reaches out blindly to grip his arms. “He promised he wouldn’t go alone.”

“He isn’t going alone,” Felix says gently. “I’m sorry, I should have said so before. He’s meeting up with a few old companions. From his Champion days, he said.”

All the air goes out of him at once and he lays back again. “Maker. Did he say who?”

“Isabela and Fenris?” He seems to taste the names in his mouth like an unfamiliar wine. “Varric wanted to go, but Hawke refused. Said he was needed more here.”

“Like hell he is.” Out of anyone, he trusts Varric the most to watch his brother’s back. But it will have to do. He releases his death grip on Felix’s arm and Felix takes his hands away, though he still sits close. It’s… comforting. “I’m, er, sorry for going off on you like that?”

“It’s not a problem. I apologize for pinning you down, only you’re not supposed to overextend yourself.”

“I didn’t mind,” Carver says, and pauses, surprised at himself. “Er. Sorry if that sounded… suggestive.”

“I didn’t mind,” Felix echoes. Amusement colors his voice, and Carver feels the tips of his ears warming red. “But all that aside, since you’re awake, can I get you anything? A drink, something to eat?”

“Do you really have nothing better to do than look after me? I mean, I appreciate it, but I don’t want to take up your time if there’s something else you’d rather be doing.”

“Oh, there’s nothing else,” Felix says cheerfully. He’s still sitting on the edge of the bed. Carver can feel the heat of him, and the slight dip in the mattress, subtly pulling his body toward him with the force of gravity. “You’re a bit of a special project for me, actually. I have a lot of experience in slow recuperation, so I told the surgeon I would devote myself to your recovery. It’s a lot more interesting than my usual duties, trust me.”

“Experience? What do you mean?”

“Ah. I… suffered from blight sickness for many years.” His words are hesitant, but not reluctant, like he’s choosing each one with care rather than fear. “When they were finally able to stop the progression of the disease, it took me awhile to get back on my feet. I am still recovering, in fact, in many ways. Which is why it’s easier for me to be here, helping in the sickbay, and not off gallivanting in the library or some such thing.”

Carver can’t help but think that he sounds disappointed at this last--and he _was_ reading a book, he recalls now, when Carver last awoke--but a slightly more pressing matter is weighing on his mind. “Hang on. You… are cured of the Blight?”

“Not _cured_ , exactly. I mean, it’s still inside me. It’s just… sealed off. In a manner of speaking. That’s how the surgeon explained it to me, anyway.” He hesitates. “It’s a bit experimental. Apparently I am the first patient they’ve had any success with. Although, all their previous patients were Wardens. I am told they believe the Joining has something to do with the difficulties.”

Again, Carver is floored. “You know about the Joining?”

“Don’t worry,” he says, sounding amused again, “your secret is safe with me. My father was… quite energetic in researching potential cures. The Joining was one, but he decided that it would be a last resort. He wanted something more… permanent.”

Who is his father, Carver wonders, that he could pry the secret of the Joining out of any Warden? He decides he’s better off leaving that question for another day. Besides, he’s parched. “Well if you’re stuck with me, then, would you mind getting me some water? I think I’m thirsty enough to share a druffalo trough at this point.”

Felix laughs, and the mattress shifts as he stands erect. “That won’t be necessary. One moment.” He leaves the room briefly, and when he returns, he brings a waterskin that he holds to Carver’s lips, bidding him to drink slowly. “You’ve had next to nothing in your stomach for the past several days. Give it time.”

He feels uncomfortably full after just a few sips, so he reluctantly lays back and wipes his chin with shaking hands. “Am I allowed to eat?”

“If you’re hungry, you can have broth or mash.”

He groans. “Ugh. Mash then, I suppose.”

There's a soft chuckle. “All right. I'll just be a moment.”

Carver tries to sit up while he’s gone, but his limbs are so weak that he can barely lift his head off the pillow. And his hands, he realizes, will never be able to grip a utensil with any kind of consistency. When Felix returns, he scolds Carver mildly for overextending himself, and doesn’t falter when Carver says, a little bit acidly, “I tried to lift my head. I didn’t realize that exercise was forbidden.”

“I’m sorry. I know this is difficult for such an independent person as yourself,” he says, matter-of-factly, not even a trace of pity. “In another day or two you will start to feel more like yourself, but until then, you must try to lay as quietly as possible to let your body heal.” There’s the _clink_ of the bowl being set down beside his bed, and he can smell the bland, vaguely bread-like smell of mashed oats. Ugh. “If you would prefer to wait a little while, we can, but you should get something more substantial in you than water.”

Carver sighs and swallows his pride as best he can. “Yeah, no. It’s all right. I’m sorry for snapping at you, it’s not your fault I’m… like this.”

Spoon rattles against dish and Carver opens his mouth obediently, even though it rankles. “You’re being hailed as a hero, you know. The man who singlehandedly saved the Inquisitor from certain death.”

Carver swallows quickly to avoid the tasteless mush as much as possible. “It was hardly singlehanded. My brother was there.”

“But he wasn’t the one who slew the Fear Demon’s pet monster. Here.” Another bite, slightly less intolerable this time. “You are very lucky to be alive. Be patient with yourself.”

Suitably humbled, Carver eats a few more bites in contemplative quiet. When his stomach starts to complain, he shakes his head and Felix covers the platter for later. He’ll probably be hungry again in ten minutes, but until then he feels ready to burst.

In more ways than one, he realizes with a sudden, dawning horror. Because he really, really has to pee. He isn’t sure why he hadn’t noticed earlier, but now that he’s put food and water in his stomach and set things in motion again, it’s all he can think about. And it’s getting worse. But he doesn’t dare confess it--he doesn’t even want to imagine the humiliation that would ensue. _I’ll just wait until he leaves, and piss out the window or something._

But Felix doesn’t leave. He fusses over Carver until he’s satisfied that he’s comfortable (he isn’t), and then settles down with his book, evidently assuming that he wants to take a nap (he doesn’t). He doesn’t think he could sleep if he tried. His bladder has become the sole focus of his attention, and he can’t help the tension building in response.

He’s wavering on the edge between his pride and the very real danger of wetting the bed when Felix snaps his book shut and clears his throat. “Are you all right?”

Carver feels himself blush. “I’m… fine.”

“Really? Because you keep clenching and unclenching your fists, and you’re as tense as a block of wood.” He waits a moment, giving Carver a chance to speak, but he can’t. It’s too embarrassing. “Carver. What was I saying earlier about being patient with yourself? If you’re in pain, I need you to tell me so I can do something about it.”

 _Maker, this is making it worse._ “I’m not in pain,” he says, though that’s very nearly a lie at this point. “I just… sorry, I think the water and, and everything…”

“ _Oh_. Well, naturally. I apologize, I didn’t even think of it. Let me fetch a pan.”

 _A pan?_ Horrified, and inexplicably grateful for the covering over his eyes, he holds still and barely breathes while Felix gets everything situated and leaves the room to give him privacy.

Carver dies a little inside over the next several minutes, but when it’s over and Felix has settled back down to his book, he feels a lot better. Better enough, to his surprise, that he _does_ drift off to sleep after all.

The chattering of his own teeth wake him up some time later. He wants desperately to take the blindfold off and see what time it is, but he doesn’t dare--for some reason, he now lives in fear of disappointing Felix. Instead he flails his limbs a bit, trying to pull the blankets up around himself more firmly, to no effect. He slumps back and aches with incompetence.

“Felix?” he whispers at last. He can’t hear any evidence of him in the room. “Felix?”

There’s rustling and footsteps, and then he feels a warm hand on his brow. “All right? Maker, you’re clammy.” His voice is rusty with disuse, and Carver feels a pang of regret.

“Did I wake you? I’m sorry…”

“No no, don’t apologize. That’s why I’m here. I’ve a pallet in the corner,” he explains. Carver can hear him rummaging around in a chest or wardrobe, and then Felix is plying him with blankets, drawing each one up to the chin conscientiously. “Are you uncomfortable or in pain? Or just cold?”

“J-j-just cold.” His teeth and tongue try to stick together, and a full-body shiver wracks him.

“Then I won’t bother the surgeon. She told me this might happen. But it’s a good thing! It means you’re healing.” His voice fades as he crosses the room, and Carver can hear him poking at the fire. “If you’re still chilly in another minute or two, I can warm you up with a little magic. Unless you’re opposed.”

Carver is so surprised that his teeth stop chattering. “You’re a mage?”

“Not a very good one. I don’t mean that I’ll set fire to your blankets on accident! More that I couldn’t even if I tried. My mana pool is miniscule.” He sounds friendly and not at all bothered, so Carver feels okay about pressing for more.

“And you’re… Tevinter, right? So you’re not…”

“Not Tranquil?” Felix says, with such terrible gravitas that for a second Carver fears he’s offended him. “No. Tranquility isn’t used for that purpose in the North. I was lucky--my parents allowed me to pursue my own interests, and never despised me for my lack of magical gift.”

“Oh.” _Lucky_. He thinks of his own father, setting aside time every day to help him with his swordplay after hours of training Beth and Garrett, and almost feels guilty. He was never made to feel lesser because of his lack of magic--whether or not he made _himself_ feel lesser is another matter--and he wonders how lonely it must have been for Felix, growing up surrounded by magical children who would have shunned him when they found out he would never be one of them.

“How are you feeling now?” Felix asks kindly, breaking into his gloomy thoughts. “Still cold?”

“A little.” His teeth aren’t chattering anymore, but the bone-deep chill still lingered. “I wouldn’t mind if you, um, wanted to use your magic.”

“All right. Don’t mind me, I’m just going to touch you very lightly to spread it out.”

Carver nods, and tries to relax. He feels a light brush against his feet where they poke up beneath the blanket, and warmth blooms there immediately after, crawling up his legs. He sighs and relaxes. Another touch on his belly, and each arm, his chest, and then the very top of his head. This last is the most intimate of all, not shielded by the weight of blankets, and he swears that Felix grazes his cheek as he draws away. Warmth suffuses his whole body and he groans a little with relief, letting his weight sink deep into the bedding.

“Marvelous,” he slurs, and Felix’s chuckle is a little bit distant and muffled.

“You’re welcome. Now go to sleep.”

Just like that, he does.

///

The second day is much like the first, but by the third he is feeling much better. He’s still not allowed to take the blindfold off, but he can sit up and move about the bed on his own, and after breakfast he’s even able to take a few slow steps with Felix by his side.

“A bath, perhaps?” Felix suggests when they’re done.

“Smelly, am I?” Carver jokes. “Don’t answer that. Yeah, I could go for one. But what about this?” He taps the blindfold, still firmly in place over his eyes. He’s so used to it now that he barely feels it.

“If we block the windows and use only candlelight, perhaps it would be okay to take it off. I will ask.”

The surgeon grants permission, and soon Carver is sinking into a large wooden tub of hot water, making unashamed noises of delight and appreciation. Felix laughs at him without mockery and hands him the soap. “Tell me if you need help,” he says. “Or I can leave the room if you prefer.”

“No, stay. I might accidentally drown myself without you here.” He picks carefully at the edge of the bandaging, subsiding when he feels Felix take over.

“So dramatic.” Felix removes the fabric deftly, and when it’s gone even the sparse candlelight makes his head ache. Carver closes his eyes swiftly and leans back. There’s nothing to see, anyway; the room is too dim to make out any details. “Is that too much?”

“No, it’s fine. Just… don’t laugh if my arms decide to stop working halfway through, okay?”

“I would never laugh at you,” Felix says with complete sincerity.

Carver isn’t sure what to say in reply, so he says nothing, just lets silence fall over the room as he washes. It’s a clumsy endeavor, but there is no laughter, as promised, not even when he asks for help with his hair. “My whole body is so tired,” he whinges as Felix scrubs his scalp with merciless fingers. He won’t admit it, but it feels amazing. “I hate it.”

“I know,” Felix says patiently. “Another day or two. You’ll be back to your old self in time for Satinalia Night, I promise.”

Carver is quiet a moment. “Is it really Satinalia?”

“All this week. There isn’t much celebrating, with a war on, but the Inquisitor is determined that lifting everyone’s spirits is just as important as finding Corypheus.”

 _Ugh_. If he hears that name again it’ll be too soon. “It’s been awhile since I’ve… celebrated. We used to, at Ansburg, but I’ve been on the run for so long…” He trails off, realizing that Felix’s hands have slowed in his hair. It feels more like a massage than a wash, and the warmth of it trickles down his spine like the soft touch of magic in his bones the night before. He takes a steadying breath. “What about you?”

“About… me? Satinalia, you mean?” His hands pick up again, and then he pushes Carver down gently to rinse the suds out with cups of water. “It’s much the same for me, I suppose. It’s all a big production in Tevinter, but I enjoyed it as a boy. Later… less so. But I’m not in Tevinter anymore.” He sounds cautiously optimistic about this. “I’m looking forward to partaking in Southern traditions.”

Right now Carver is looking forward to getting out of this bath and away from Felix’s magic hands. Not _literally_ this time, but still. He's lucky his body is still recovering, or he'd be in real trouble.

“There you go,” Felix says, dragging his fingers one more time through Carver’s wet hair. It feels so good he slips and makes a sound, a tiny, infinitesimal groan that he can't quite stifle. “All right?”

“Yeah, I'm good. Good. Um, towel?”

“Of course.” Is that… amusement in his voice? Or is Carver imagining things? Either way, Felix directs him with gentle touches to climb out of the bath, taking his weight when Carver wavers. Before he has a chance to feel self-conscious, naked in the dark as he is, Felix is wrapping him in a great floofy towel, warm from sitting by the fire; he can smell the slightly woodsmoky smell, and he buries his nose in the fabric as he swiped himself dry and sits on the edge of the bed.

“I know I can't go out unattended,” he begins, slightly muffled as he struggles into the simple clothes Felix brings him, “but could we maybe, ah, walk around a little? My legs are getting antsy.”

“A good sign,” Felix quips, but he says nothing more, and Carver frowns.

“Am I… allowed? To be out of bed and walking around?”

“If you feel up to it. Hold still, so I can rebandage your eyes.”

Carver does so, uncertain what to think about the hesitancy in Felix’s voice. His hands, at least, are soft and efficient, tying fresh linen into place over his eyes. It’s almost a relief after the vague glow of candlelight during his bath, but it’s not quite enough to distract him from the matter at hand. “Is there a problem?” he asks bluntly, turning to face Felix as best he can. “If you have other things to do I can wait.”

“I--no, that’s not… there’s no problem,” he says, too quickly. “Come, let me fetch you warmer gear. Skyhold is temperate, but you will want a scarf and tunic at the very least.”

He leaves before Carver can make a reply, so he decides to let the matter lie. It’s none of his business, whatever it is, and if Felix doesn’t want to talk about it then Carver won’t press him. Anyway, he’s too excited to be out of this tiny room. He’s lucky, he knows--there aren’t many private chambers in the infirmary, and he owes it mainly to his association with his brother that he was granted so much privacy. Perhaps his heroics in the Fade had something to do with it, he grudgingly admits. Regardless, he feels the slightest bit guilty as Felix takes his arm and leads him down the stairs, past the other patients. He can hear a little, enough to know that there are too many people in beds and not enough healers to go around.

“Surely there’s someone else who might need my room more than I,” he says quietly once the door has closed behind them. The cool alpine wind of the Frostbacks kisses his cheeks, and he shivers--not with chill, for the castle _is_ strangely temperate as Felix had said, but with enjoyment of the fresh air.

“Another day or two and you will be given something more permanent,” Felix assures him. “Now. Where would you like to go?”

Carver doesn’t really want to be pointed or stared at, and when he conveys as much, Felix makes a knowing sound and guides him away from the faint clash of steel and _thunk_ of arrowheads in straw dummies that he recognizes readily from the training yard at Ansberg. Instead they wander. Carver is quickly lost, but it doesn’t matter--the grass is soft under his boots, the walls cool and study at his touch, and always Felix is at his side, warm, their arms laced together for stability. After a while they come to a garden, betrayed by the trickle of water and the heavy scent of herbs and flowers on the air, and Felix guides him to sit at a bench for a breather.

“How are you feeling?”

“Good,” he says, trying to pretend he isn’t a little short of breath. It’s true, for the most part--he doesn’t feel on the verge of collapse. But it’s tiring work, walking around, and he’s grateful for the chance to sit.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Junior.” A jovial, familiar voice comes to his ears, and Carver turns his head in its direction.

“Varric?”

“The one and only.” The bench creaks a bit as Varric sits down on his other side. “Hello to you too, Sparks. Still on nursemaid duty?”

Carver laughs even as Felix groans. “Sparks? Where did that one come from?”

“Well Dorian is Sparkler, as you know.” Carver does know, he thinks--he vaguely recalls a very drunken game of cards with Varric and a few others on the way to Adamant, including a Tevinter mage with a spectacular mustache and far too many glittering rings to properly cheat at cards. “Felix here is like his shadow, or is when he’s around. And thus a nickname was born.”

Felix snorts, but he doesn’t sound _too_ upset about it. “Are you sure it doesn’t have anything to do with my lack of magical ability? _Sparks_ are about the best I can do.”

“That’s not true,” Carver says, thinking of the warmth Felix had given him the night before. “Last night--erm.” He stops short, realizing how _last night you kept me warm_ might sound to outside ears, and Varric gives a low whistle.

“Aw, no shit. Now _there’s_ a good romantic subplot just waiting to happen.”

“ _Varric_ ,” Carver says, irritably. Felix has gone rigid next to him, he can feel it in the loop of his arm, and as much as he enjoys Varric’s company, he suddenly wishes he were far away. “Don’t.”

“Oh, all right. Be that way.” Varric pats his hand swiftly and without warning, and he only just avoids startling away from the gesture. “It’s real good to see you up and about, Junior. You too, Sparks. You should come to Wicked Grace tonight, get out of the infirmary for a little while. It would do you good.”

“Thank you for the invitation, Varric, but I cannot abandon my post.” He squeezes Carver’s arm very lightly.

Varric sighs, as if this is a very old argument. “You know that no one cares, don’t you? There are more important things to worry about these days than gawking at… Vints.” When Felix makes no reply, Varric gets up and squeezes Carver’s shoulder, and this time he doesn’t feel the need to pull away. “I expect to see _you_ at next week’s game, all right? Herald’s Rest, eight o’clock.”

“Sure thing,” Carver says, and listens to the scuff of Varric’s booted feet as he departs. He frowns. Something’s been niggling at him since they left the infirmary, and Varric’s odd parting words to Felix have brought it to the fore. “Felix…”

“Mm?”

“I won’t pry if you don’t want me to, but… why didn’t you want me to come walking? So far it’s been all right. Hasn’t it? I mean, minus Varric’s teasing, but I’m used to that.”

“As am I,” Felix murmurs. There’s a brief stretch of silence as if he’s considering answering, and then he sighs. “It’s nothing.”

“Well clearly it _is_ something. I’m not going to make you tell me, you know, but you can at least admit you’re not at ease.” He pauses. “We can go back, if you like. To the infirmary.” It pains him to make the offer, with the sweet taste of sun on his face and the smell of something _other_ than bitter healing salves and sick in his nose, but Felix’s obvious discomfort prompts him to cut their excursion short anyway.

“No, it’s all right. It’s silly of me, to be so missish about it.” He clears his throat, and Carver can feel him stiffen even more where their arms are hooked together. “I told you I suffered from the Blight. It, ah, left its mark, I’m afraid. It was quite advanced by the time they were able to contain it. They tell me the scars will fade with time, but until then… well, let’s just say I prefer not to go out in public very much. People tend to… stare.”

Well _now_ Carver feels awful. “Come on, then. I’ve had my fill of socializing, we can—”

“ _No_ , Carver. I mean, unless you are tired,” he adds hastily, gentle concern following fast on the heels of sharpness. “Varric is right. I should get out more, get over this… hangup. I was never a vain man--that I left to Dorian.”

“I think everyone’s a little bit vain,” Carver says gently. He wants to hold Felix’s hand, to comfort him somehow, but he doesn’t know what to say exactly. He’s also _dying_ of curiosity to see what Felix looks like, but he doesn’t dare ask. It’s obviously a sore subject. “A few more minutes, then?”

“As you wish,” Felix agrees, but something in his voice sounds relieved.

///

The walk tires Carver out more than he thought it would, and he falls asleep almost as soon as they return to his room. In spite of his weariness, his slumber is restless; he dreams of the Fade, of being _in_ it, physically, of fighting back wave upon wave of faceless horrors while his brother looks on, impassive. It’s the first real nightmare he’s had in awhile, the first since the false Calling was ended, and he’s not used to it--he wakes screaming sometime later that evening, limbs too weak to do more than thrash as he chokes and shouts awake.

There are hands on him, then, but not darkspawn claws--soft, careful hands, with a sturdy, comforting weight that pulls him out of the terror and into his own head. He grabs for the blindfold, tearing at it, but Felix pulls his hands away from that, too, and holds them too his own chest until Carver can breathe again.

“Sorry,” he gasps, shivering so hard his teeth clack together uncontrollably. “Sorry, sorry.”

“No, shhh. Don’t apologize. You’re quite all right, my dear. You’re safe.” Felix doesn’t let go, rubbing circles on his wrists with his thumbs, and Carver’s heartbeat slows. “You’re safe.”

 _But Garrett might not be_ , he thinks, but he swallows the words back. Garrett can take care of himself. And Fenris and Isabela will look after him. _He’s going to be fine._

“Thanks. I’m, um, I’m alright now.” But when Felix goes to release him, he can’t let go. “Felix…”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t--I just, I don’t want to be alone. Um. Right now.”

He still hasn’t let go of him, but Felix gently detangles himself and stands away from the mattress. Carver’s heart sinks.

“Forget it, I—”

He nearly swallows his tongue as the mattress dips again, this time with Felix’s whole weight. He nudges Carver slightly, and Carver moves, making room for him on the mattress. And then Felix _holds him_ , tugging the blankets up and pulling him down against his chest, and for a moment Carver can’t breathe. He’s wearing a loose shirt and soft, worn breeches; his feet are bare; his hands, so gentle, are in Carver’s hair.

“Shh. Try and go back to sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”

Carver blinks away the stinging in his eyes and wraps his arms around Felix’s waist. He’s thinner than Carver first thought, like he’s still fighting to put meat on his bones, and he realizes he’s never noticed whether Felix eats or not. He resolves that as soon as his blindfold is off, he’s going to devote himself to making sure Felix is taking care of himself just as much as he takes care of others.

The rest of the night goes easy, and when he wakes in the very early morning, Felix is still there, apparently unconcerned that Carver is practically crushing him into the mattress. He’s awake, of course--he’s always awake before Carver--and his breathing is too quick for sleep, but still even and relaxed. Carver makes a grumbling waking-up noise and adjusts himself so that he’s tucked in against his side, nose buried in his neck where he smells of tangy elfroot and sleep-sweat and musk. A little curl of heat infuses itself in his belly, and it’s not just lust. There’s something softer muddled in with it, a tenderness Carver hasn’t felt toward someone in a long time.

“Do you want me to move?” Felix asks quietly into his hair.

Carver shakes his head. “‘Less you want to.” When there’s no reply and no effort to move, he draws his arm around Felix’s waist and gives the warm skin beneath his lips a little sleepy, satisfied kiss.

Felix goes stiff all over, and not in the good way. “Carver, don’t.”

“Why not?” He wishes he could prop himself up and stare him in the face, read his expression and have _some_ cue to go on other than his voice. He sounds… reluctant, shuttered, but he isn’t moving away. “I thought you…”

“It doesn’t matter,” Felix whispers before Carver can figure out how to finish that sentence. “You don’t even know what I look like.”

Carver is so thrown that he is silent for a whole ten breaths. Then when he remembers, it takes all his willpower not to scoff. “Felix, honestly. I don’t care about that. You’ve been so kind and gentle with me, and you never made me feel like a useless invalid, which I hate--are you really so surprised that I would start to think highly of you? If… if my regard is unwelcome, you have only to say, but I thought…”

Felix sighs into the quiet. “If you _do_ care for me, Carver, please… wait. Just a few more days. And after, if you still…” He touches the bandages over Carver’s eyes with gentle fingers.

“I will, _still_ ,” Carver says mutinously, but he can respect Felix’s wishes. He wants to tell him that he’s seen uglier things than Felix, ghouls and darkspawn and Blight enough to turn any man’s stomach to iron, but that seems impertinent so he holds his tongue. “Whatever you need.” It’s a physical pain in his chest to do it, but he rolls away from Felix’s warmth and lays flat on his back, already missing the way their bodies fit together.

Felix lays beside him a moment or two longer, then touches the back of his hand. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and rises to begin his day.

///

The next two days are a little awkward, but the tension between them isn’t the discomfiting sort. It’s more the _we both feel things for each other but can’t admit them yet_ sort. Felix continues to do his job, and Carver continues to pine, and each night Felix climbs into his bed without being asked, letting Carver wrap him up and hold him as he sleeps without dreaming.

He improves by leaps and bounds, and on the sixth--Satinalia Eve--the surgeon pays him one last visit to take off the blindfold. Carver is braced for the pain, but it still takes him by surprise. He’s grown used to the dark, and the light of midafternoon guarantees as instant headache.

“Take this,” the surgeon says, handing him a small cup of something vile-smelling. “If your head still hurts later this evening, come to me and I’ll make you more. If necessary I can have something made to protect your eyes from the sun that will still allow you to see, but I think you’ll recover just fine.” She watches him like a hawk to make sure he drinks, and nods with satisfaction after, smiling the slightest bit when he grimaces at the taste. “If you pay the Ambassador a visit, I believe she can have someone show you to your new quarters.”

Carver thanks her, because it’s polite, and it’s only after she’s gone that he realizes Felix never came back from fetching her.

_They tell me the scars will fade with time, but until then… well, let’s just say I prefer not to go out in public very much. People tend to… stare._

Maker. Is Felix really going to hide from him? After a week of caring for him, bathing him, changing his bedpan by the Void! If anyone has anything to be ashamed of, it’s Carver. He’ll just have to track him down and make him understand that Carver _does not care_ about how he looks. But first, the basics. Suffused with purpose, he finds his way to Ambassador Montilyet’s office and she dispatches someone to show him his room.

The last time he was in Skyhold, he and Garrett had bunked in the Herald’s Rest with some of the Chargers, and this is a palace in comparison: a small room overlooking the gardens, with a serviceable little water closet and arched windows with a view to the mountains. Someone has even been kind enough to put up little silver candles, and set a basket of fruit on the hearth for Satinalia. Most importantly for a man of his size, a sturdy bed with a wide, comfortable mattress and plenty of blankets. He can envision himself with Felix there so clearly--not in the throes of passion, necessarily, but just wrapped up together against the chill, cuddling or reading or just lying quietly together while the morning sun comes up over the mountains.

His gear has already been brought up, and he turns to thank the runner, who is edging foot to foot by the door nervously. Her wide-eyed glance tells him it’s hero-worship rather than fear, and he decides he may as well take advantage of it while it lasts.

“If I could just ask one more favor?”

“Of course, ser,” she says stoutly, standing up straight as if at attention. “What do you need?”

He delivers the message and sets about getting things in order while he waits. He changes into fresh clothes from his own pack, lays a new fire, puts his armor on the stand in the corner for looking-after, and has progressed to oiling and whetting his blade--blessedly familiar and unchanged after its brief adventures in the Fade--when there comes a gentle tapping on the door.

“Come,” he says, reaching for a rag. The door opens.

A man steps through, slim, dressed simply in tunic and trousers after the Ferelden fashion, with a scarf around his neck emblazoned with the eye of the Inquisition. His hair is very dark and cropped close to his skull, and his skin is a bit ashen but still golden brown with centuries of sun, laced with darker lines and swathes of pigment that make him look ill, or very tired. _Ghoulish_ , Carver’s brain supplies, but he rejects that moniker out of hand. He’s seen true ghouls, and Felix is nothing like them.

 _Felix_. With his hands clasped nervously in front of him, and his bruised eyes darting here and there, like a hunted creature ready for the strike. Carver puts aside his sword and stands, mouth dry. “Hello.”

“You summoned me, so I came,” Felix says, and yes, it’s _his_ voice emerging from those lips. Carver knows that if he were to take his hands, they would be just as soft and familiar.

“I didn’t want to. I mean--if I had known where you had gone, I would have come to find you myself, but I… I got lost on the way to Ambassador Montilyet’s office, so. I didn’t want to risk getting turned around and never being found again.”

Felix chuffs softly. “You would have been found. Eventually.” He licks his lips and looks away. “I would have come looking.”

“Well, that’s good. Because I thought, when you left, that you… didn’t want to see me again.”

Felix _does_ look at him then, sharply, and the eye contact feels like a physical blow after so long in the dark. “I didn’t want to pressure you, or add to your worries. You’ve had enough to focus on, getting well. I didn’t want to distract from that.”

“You _are_ distracting,” Carver agrees warmly. He smiles to see Felix blush and glance away. “What I said before still holds, you know. I think… very highly of you. If it’s all on me, that’s okay, I can… let it go. Or try. If that’s what you want.”

Felix bites his lip. “Are you sure? Perhaps you should wait a day or two—”

“Felix. You’ve been telling me to wait _a day or two_ for the last week. I’m not going to wait anymore, unless you want to. Really, really want to.” He takes the last few steps forward until he’s right in Felix’s space, and he wants so badly to kiss him but he holds back. “I need you to tell me that you want to wait, Fee.”

He really is handsome, Carver thinks. Up close. Without the scars and the sallow tint to his skin, he’d be as classically gorgeous as Dorian. But the marks the Blight has left don’t put him off, and he’s desperate to prove it. Felix shuts his eyes. “I don’t want to wait,” he admits softly, but still Carver refrains from overwhelming him. “But people might think… because I’m Tevinter, you know, that I… seduced you with blood magic. Or that I’m altering your mind—”

“That’s bollocks. The only seduction technique involved was holding me when I had a nightmare and changing my bedpans when I couldn’t even move my face. Which I’m still embarrassed about, by the way, I don’t know why I brought it up.”

Felix’s morose expression splits as he giggles, and he leans his head against Carver’s chest when Carver pulls him into an embrace. “I’ve done worse for patients, believe me. At least you were good-looking.”

“Hmm, am I?”

“Particularly with your blindfold off, I have to say. Your eyes are stunning.” He glances up at him, almost nervously, and Carver catches his chin in one hand before he can hide his face again.

“Can I kiss you now, please? Or do you want me to wait a day or two for that, too?”

Felix wrinkles his nose adorably. “I already said I didn’t want you to wait, didn’t I?”

“Still. I just wanted to check.” Permission granted, he leans down and kisses him. With his eyes shut, all his old impressions come flooding in: the warm, tangy smell of him, his soft hands, the sound of his breath. His eagerness unfolds in darkness, and Felix matches it, stretching up to wrap his arms around his neck and press himself close, bodies flush and mouths open and searching. He tastes sweet and a little spicy, like he’s been chewing embrium leaves, and Carver wants to do nothing for the rest of the day but pull him into his bed and kiss him for hours.

He’s sliding his hands down Felix’s spine and preparing to suggest just that when a large, gonging bell tolls somewhere far overhead. He breaks the kiss, pleased to note his dazed expression. “What was that for? There aren’t enemies attacking, are there?”

“No! That’s the feast bell. For Satinalia Eve.”

Carver looks at him, in his plain clothing, and frowns. “Were you not going to go?”

Felix shrugs and looks away. “I thought a nice evening in sounded preferable. I’m not overly fond of crowds.”

Carver silently vows to punch anyone who ever gives Felix a wrong look again. “I quite agree,” he says instead of confessing it. “Do you think they would bring us up a tray, if I asked?”

“You want to?” Felix asks, apparently startled by this suggestion. “I thought you would want to… participate.”

“I want to be with you,” Carver says simply. “And I’m too fragile for so much hullaballoo, anyway.” He coughs facetiously into his fist. “Just give me moment to find someone to ask.”

Before he can turn toward the door, he’s being pulled back into a kiss, deeper and wetter than before, and over far too quickly. Felix grins at him after and makes a little shooing motion with his hands. “Go on, then. I’ll wait.”

Carver shakes his head and steps out, wiping his mouth belatedly. The evening is velvet-soft and lit with the sinking sun, full of the sounds of people preparing to make merry long into the night. Waiting for him is a gorgeous man with a kind heart who, for some reason, actually _likes_ Carver. Garrett is headed into danger, but with loyal friends at his side, and Carver is back on his feet and lucky to be alive. All in all, the best Satinalia he’s had in years.

His stomach grumbles, reminding him of his task. _Now to find a runner…_


End file.
